


The Winchester House For Wayward Angels

by SixtySevenChevy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fallen Angels, Humor, M/M, Motherhen!Dean, look guys i wrote something cute and nobody died, the bunker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-09
Packaged: 2017-12-13 14:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixtySevenChevy/pseuds/SixtySevenChevy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the drive back from that tiny church, Dean nearly runs over a few angels. It only makes sense that he take them with him. After all, there's room back at the Bunker, and they're Cas' siblings. He can't say no, can he?</p><p>Or, how Dean became an angel hoarder.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yep, every single angel mentioned is a real (real if you believe in angels that is; they're theological) angel. Names taken from sarahsarchangels.com, which is the single greatest angel reference ever found.

It starts with just Cas. Dean drags him out of the forest and into the passenger seat of the Impala, all the while murmuring comfort and cursing under his breath. Sam is in the backseat, occasionally groaning softly, clutching his head. Next to him is a worryingly quiet Crowley, still with his wrists chained together, blood dried on his face and several small pinpricks of blood on his neck. Dean drives with anger, as if all the forces of Hell are on his heels. By the time they get within two hours of the Bunker, Cas has passed out.

Angels are falling everywhere, including on the road. Dean passes two of them—he’s not sure if they’re still alive or not, so he keeps driving—and actually does come dangerously close to clipping one with a tire. He stops to make sure he didn’t kill anybody, and is confronted with a sobbing woman. She’s sitting on the side of the road, knees pulled up to her chest, rocking back and forth slowly.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks, even though he knows she isn’t. Even if she hadn’t just fallen from Grace, he did just nearly run over her foot with his car. She looks up at him with a tear streaked face, mascara smeared.

“I want to go home,” she whimpers. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do whatever I did. I just want to go back.”

Dean can feel his heart shatter. It never occurred to him that the angels don’t know why they’ve fallen. They must all think that they did something so astronomically wrong that they were all kicked out, no questions asked, no grief necessary. He runs a hand through his hair and sighs heavily, sitting cross-legged next to her. She immediately scoots slightly closer, and he places a hand on her knee. 

“It wasn’t your fault. You remember Metatron?” he asks. She nods slowly, confused. Dean clears his throat. “He wanted revenge, because the archangels chased him away. So he made you all fall. It wasn’t your fault.”

The ex-angel looks terrified. “Why would he do something like that? How could he? He was one of us, he was supposed to love us all, he was supposed to be good.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean says, for lack of better things to say. “Being alone for so long changed him. He went crazy.”

The ex-angel shudders, sobbing quietly. She leans her head on Dean’s shoulder, trusting and naïve, far too sweet to be in the world yet. She trusted the first random stranger to find her on the side of the road. He can’t just leave her.

Dean sighs. “Listen, you’re going to need a place to stay for a little while. Why don’t you come with me and my friends, and you can rest up at our place. I’m Dean, by the way,” he offers. She nods rapidly, thankfully, blessing him under her breath. Dean stands slowly, taking her hand and helping her to her feet. The form she’s taken is that of a blond woman in her mid-twenties, strong enough to fight off most attackers if she knew how, short and muscular. He’s going to have to teach her to fight as a human. He has no doubt that she can kick his ass as an angel.

The car is nearly full, so there’s some rearranging to be done. He ends up having to ask the woman—she whispers to him that her name is Sachluph, and he elects to name her Sarah because that’s an awful name for a human being—to stand and wait while he pulls Sam into the front seat. 

Sarah looks intensely uncomfortable, staring nervously into the backseat. Dean furrows his brow in confusion, and then it hits him like a ton of bricks with the word _dumbass_ painted in bold block letters on the side. She’s probably sensing Crowley’s almost-demon-ness. 

“Um, I can move him, if you don’t want to sit next to him,” Dean offers. Sarah nods timidly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Dean sticks his head in the car, raising one eyebrow at Crowley. Crowley opens the door on his side and gets out, awkwardly leaning against the car. “Dammit, hold on. I’m going to put Cas in the back with you, so Crowley will be between the two of us who could actually take him in a fight.”

“I don’t think Sam’s able to fight right now,” Cas rasps from the front seat, not opening his eyes. “Dean. My head hurts.”

Dean wants to cry. Everything is going to shit. “I know, Cas. Hang in there. I’m trying to save you sister here.” He hopes the sarcasm at the end wasn’t too much.

“You’re too kind,” Cas mumbles. “Thank you.”

“Shut up and let me carry you, sap,” Dean says, trying to move Cas as painlessly as possible. The poor guy’s been through enough. Dean manages to get him into the back without much trouble. He stands back and tries to force some briskness. “Sit there and don’t freak Sarah out.”

“Sachluph,” Sarah murmurs. “And you?”

“Castiel,” Cas whispers, head lolling to the left. His breathing is labored and he sounds like he’s going to collapse into a coughing fit soon. “Anabiel Garrison.”

“Dalquiel Garrison,” Sarah responds, and Dean realizes that this is probably some form of angel greeting. Cas coughs, whole body shaking slightly. 

“Stop talking. You’re going to wear yourself out,” Dean orders sternly, and then turns to Sarah. “Get in. you’ll be fine so long as you don’t do anything to hurt any of us, which I doubt.”

Sarah nods and awkwardly clambers into the back of the Impala, leaving Dean standing outside next to Crowley. He gestures from Crowley to the front seat, where Sam is sleep in the middle. Dean would like to cordially thank whoever invented bench seats for including them in this model of the Chevy Impala. 

After Crowley gets in, Dean gets back into the passenger seat and revs the engine. He can hear Sarah gasp in fear, and feels a quiver of remorse. He’s trying to help, sure, but she’s not going to have much fun in the process. He starts off driving slowly, making an attempt to not jostle the ex-angels, ex-demon, and ex-blood-junkie. Sarah still whimpers when he speeds up, and he can imagine her clutching tightly at the sleeve of Cas’ trench coat, fear in her blue eyes.

They’re only about an hour away from the Bunker when he nearly hits another angel. This one leaps out of the way, hiding in the forest before Dean can even stop braking. Dean grumbles, but opens the door anyway, tossing over his shoulder, “Stay put. Be right back.”

He manages to find the angel without much trouble. This one is a man in a three-piece suit, clutching a briefcase, eyes wild with fear and brimming with shocked tears. When Dean takes a step toward him, the angel stumbles back, pressing himself against the trunk of a tree, hands raised in a submissive gesture.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Dean murmurs gently, holding his hands up to mirror the ex-angel. “Trust me, I’m not the type to hurt innocent angels.”

“Please,” the man pleads, voice breaking. “I need to know where I am.”

“Um, you’re in Kansas, about a mile south of Lebanon. I’m Dean,” Dean explains, holding out a hand for a handshake. The angel stares at it in confusion, and bites his bottom lip, one tear spilling down his cheek.

“Vel,” the angel says shakily. “Camael Garrison.”

Dean nods as if he understands what this guy is saying. “Dean. Hunter,” he says, figuring that his job ought to suffice instead of a garrison name. Vel seems to accept it, nodding and expelling a shaky breath. He sniffles and coughs, and Dean feels bad for making him stand out in the cold. Although, if he’s going to feel bad for one, he’ll start to feel bad for the rest, so he stops that train of thought in its tracks.

“Do you know why we fell?” Vel asks.

“Metatron wanted revenge on the angels for starting a war and chasing him away from Heaven. He forced you all to fall as some twisted form of punishment,” Dean says. Vel laughs, sounding on the brink of hysteria. “Listen, why don’t you come with me? I’m a hunter, so I know all about this angel crap. I have two of your siblings in my car already, and I’m taking them to my house for a while so they don’t die out here.”

Vel hesitates, but nods slowly, taking a small step toward Dean and promptly collapsing. Dean stares down at the angel in the leaf mold, noticing for the first time the blood on his suit jacket, and sighs heavily. “Son of a bitch,” he murmurs in exasperation.

Dean kneels next to Vel’s prone form, poking at him with an index finger. Satisfied that the angel isn’t going to leap up and murder him any time soon, Dean works on getting his hands under Vel’s shoulders, content to lug him back to the Impala and put him in the trunk if he has to. 

Vel is heavy, but not too heavy. The body he’s in is frightfully thin, and it makes Dean wonder how all the fallen angels got corporeal bodies. Did they all just jump into their vessels? Did they somehow all get their own bodies? He shudders and decides that he doesn’t really want to know, instead focusing on getting Vel back to the car so he can go home and take a well-deserved shower, and eat something. Thinking about home makes him realize that he’s going to have to put all of his unconscious companions to bed, and possibly find a nice cozy dungeon for Crowley to sleep in for the night. Dammit, Dean’s never going to sleep again.

When he gets back to the Impala, the first thing he does is open the trunk and get out the flashlight. He shines it carefully onto Vel’s back, trying to pinpoint the source of the blood. There isn’t much, but it’s still there, and with a new human it’s going to be a bit overwhelming. Dean shines a light in one of Vel’s eyes, and the pupil contracts like it should, so that’s good. Overall, Vel seems healthy enough, and likely to be unconscious for at least another six hours (the sedative Dean stuck in his mouth might have helped in that assumption) so Dean elects to put him in the trunk, where he’ll be safe and leave enough room for the rest of them in the cab. 

He gets back into the driver’s seat, glancing in every mirror to check for more bodies in the streets. Everyone else is either asleep or disturbingly silent about the body in the trunk, so Dean says nothing as he puts the car into gear and drives away. 

He’s been driving for a half hour when the sky finally stops writhing in bursts of light and color. In the backseat, Cas is the only one slightly conscious, and he makes a strangled sound when the last explosion fades. Dean hums in sympathy and asks the burning question. “How many angels were there, anyway?”

“Different tomes say different numbers,” Cas murmurs weakly. “In reality, about six thousand. But very few angels are strong enough to survive the fall. I’d say we have about four hundred now.”

“Jesus,” Dean breathes.

“Jesus was human. I doubt he’s out there,” Cas whispers, and Dean can’t help but laugh. He hears a small snicker from Sam, and then the car goes silent. Dean clears his throat and decides to fill the silence.

“You’re funny,” he says, but that’s not good enough. “I’m, uh, glad you survived the fall. It would be lonely without you.”

He can almost hear the smile radiating from Cas, but that doesn’t stop him from glancing in the rearview mirror just to see it. Sure enough, there it is, that familiar toothy smile etched right onto Jimmy Novak’s face, with Cas’ bright blue eyes right above it.

“I’m glad I survived, too,” Cas says, sounding slightly stronger than before. “It would be lonely without you.”

“You two need to kiss already,” Sam giggles. Dean nearly stops the car in sheer surprise and terror, before recognizing Sam’s sleep-talking voice. Sam’s always been a sleep-talker, and he’s always said the dumbest things in his sleep. Who knows what the goofball is dreaming now?

“Yeah, okay, Sammy. Go back to sleep,” Dean orders, before whispering to Cas, “He talks in his sleep.”

“Seriously,” Sam says around a yawn. “That profound bond and all that shit. He gripped you tight and raised you from Perdition. Kiss him already, you bastard.”

Dean laughs and Cas makes a noise that sounds like it’s half laugh and half sigh. “Goodnight, Sam. See you in the morning.”

“I love you, Dean. I’m sorry I ruin everything,” Sam replies, and starts snoring.

XXXXX

When Dean finally pulls up to the Bunker, he’s faced with several dilemmas. One: How the fuck is he supposed to get these people inside, let alone into beds? Two: Where the hell is he going to put them? Three: There’s another angel on the steps.

This one is another man—man-shaped, at least—and is crying just as hard as Sarah was. He’s huddled against the wall of the Bunker, hands covering his face, soaking wet as if he’s been in a lake recently. Dean gets out of the Impala and approaches him softly, hands held out in front of his chest to show that he’s unarmed. 

“Hey?” Dean calls, and the man looks up in terror. “You okay?”

“Please don’t hurt me!” the angel whimpers, trying in vain to shrink back from Dean’s advance. Dean feels like crying all over again. This day has been very… stressful. And now everyone he’s coming into contact with seems to be absolutely terrified of him. It’s like being a torturer in hell all over again. 

“I won’t,” Dean says calmly, placating. “I’m unarmed, see?” 

The angel looks him up and down, eyes completely missing the jacket pocket Dean keeps his demon knife in. Seeming satisfied that Dean isn’t going to brutally murder him—but still more scared than a sinner in church—the man nods slightly. “I’m Tempast. I served under Gamiel.”

“I’m Dean. I’m a hunter,” Dean says slowly. He points at the Batcave, careful not to make any sudden moves. “That’s my house. I have a few of your brothers and sisters in my car, and they’re all going to come inside and rest for a while. You can come in too if you want.”

Tempast nods slightly, drying his face with a hand. He looks sheepishly down at the tears and coughs. “That’s never happened before, but I know humans do it. What’s it called?”

“Crying. It happens when you’re upset,” Dean explains, already heading back to the car. “You think you can lend a hand? I have a few others to get inside, and they’re mostly unconscious.” 

Tempast shakes his head violently, terror leaking back into his eyes. Dean sighs heavily and massages his temples. It’s been a long day, and the night is shaping up to be equally long. “Then hold the door open. It isn’t locked.”

Tempast nods and hurries off to open the heavy metal door to the Bunker, and Dean opens the door to the backseat. He figures he ought to start with the lightest, and that means Cas and Sarah. Sarah is awake slightly, and manages to pull herself into consciousness by the time Dean’s ready to grab her. She holds up a hand and climbs out on her own, turning back to face Dean.

“I can help get them inside if you need me to,” she offers, and Dean nods gratefully. Finally, someone who can take care of themselves for thirty seconds!

They carefully maneuver Cas out of the car, Dean draping one of his arms across his shoulders and Sarah taking the other. They manage to get him in the Bunker and set him down on a couch, where he continues to sleep peacefully. Tempast bites his bottom lip when they go back outside, looking fearfully at Sarah as if she’s going to suddenly attack and kill him. 

Together they drag Vel into the house, depositing him in the first empty room they come to. There are four beds in that room, and Dean decides to make it the designated Angel Bedroom. Sarah doesn’t protest and simply claims the bed nearest to the door. Dean tells her to get some sleep and that Tempast ought to be in sometime soon, and she’s asleep by the time he turns the light off.

Dean takes Crowley inside next, because he doesn’t trust him to be outside alone with Heaven’s Most Fearful. Crowley doesn’t complain and allows himself to be led through the Bunker and into one of the nicer dungeons. Dean doesn’t bother with chaining him up, but he also doesn’t take off the handcuffs.

Sam is fairly easy to move, as Dean’s carried his brother’s limp body too many times after hunts gone wrong. Luckily Sam is partially awake, but only just. He grumbles at being manhandled, but Dean’s able to shut him up by whispering about shutting the hell up or else. The only actual sentence Sam strings together is nonsensical, and Dean doesn’t respond. Until Sam asks again.

“Did you kiss him?”

“No, Sammy!” Dean hisses, starting to get fed up. All he wants is a beer and a couple hours of sleep. “I did not kiss Cas! Why would I do that?”

“You’re stupid and blind,” Sam grumbles, and flops into bed. He promptly falls asleep, cuddling up to the pillow with a slightly disturbing enthusiasm. Dean leaves him to it and goes back outside to retrieve Tempast from his position by the door.

“Hey, you can come in,” he says, and Tempast shuts the door gently so as to not make a loud noise. Dean shows him to the Angel Bedroom and goes to bed too. Four hours, that’s all he needs.

XXXXX

He actually gets about seven hours of sleep. He’s woken up by Cas poking his head in the door and shouting, “Dean, there are angels outside!”

Dean leaps out of bed and throws on his shoes. He slept in his clothes, so there’s no need to pull on any pants, and all he has to do is grab a knife before running out of his room and dashing down the hall. It takes him a second to realize that having angels outside isn’t life-or-death anymore. Oops.

Of course, there are still angels outside. Six of them. 

Cas is standing on the porch, looking for all the world like a proud mother surrounded by her rich, successful children. The angels assembled are all battered and bruised, but beaming at Cas with shining eyes. Cas turns to Dean and beckons him forward.

“Dean, these are my friends. They came because they knew we lived in the area,” Cas says. He points to them in turn and lists off names—Tarwan, Eloa, Weatta, Kamali, Aban, and Zachriel—and then points at Dean. “This is Dean. He’s a hunter, and my best friend.”

Dean can feel himself blush and rubs a hand on the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “Hi.”

Cas turns the puppy-dog eyes on, and Dean knows what’s coming in the same way a person walking on train tracks suddenly knows that a train is barreling down on them and that there’s no time to leap out of the way. “We have room. Can they stay?”

Dean wants to say no, but Cas is staring at him with that pleading expression, eyes big and full of compassion, and he can’t possibly deny that they have plenty of room. There are at least a hundred rooms in the Men of Letters compound, and each can hold between four and six angels. 

Oh no. Dean can sense something big looming on the horizon.

He sighs heavily and wonders when he can get his hands on a beer. “I suppose.”

Cas grabs him and hugs him, and Dean acts on impulse. He plants a small kiss on the ex-angel’s temple. Cas stiffens and stops breathing, and Dean’s afraid that he’s done something horribly wrong, but then Cas pulls back and he’s looking as happy as he’s ever looked. Cas’ facial expression is that of a man who has just been given everything he could possibly want.

And thus the Winchester House For Wayward Angels was founded.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for typos. It's after midnight and I haven't slept in over 24 hours and I'm going to bed as soon as this is posted, so I'll fix them soon enough, I promise.
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy the second chapter that was never meant to be but somehow happened anyway.

Dean wakes up and blinks, the pre-dawn greyness filtering in through the skylight he installed last week with the help of Sarah. He stretches and groans, fingers fumbling blindly across the mattress in search of Cas’ warm body for a few seconds until he remembers that it’s Saturday, and Cas is teaching a class. 

Dean sighs heavily and blinks at the ceiling, not sure if he’s prepared to get up just yet. Making a decision, he swings his legs out of bed and slides them into a pair of slippers—gift from Cas at the last Christmas party—without letting them hit the cold wooden floor. He stands, bending until his back makes a satisfying popping sound, and shuffles into the hallway. 

There’s an angel in the hall, and he’s pretty sure her name is Theliel. She glances up at Dean and waves, and he tries not to glare at her. It’s not his fault he’s got perpetual grumpy-early-morning syndrome. 

“Good morning,” he says, leaning heavily against the wall and running a hand through his hair. 

“Morning,” Theliel says. A thin smile graces the corners of her mouth. “The anniversary is tonight. Are you excited?”

Dean nods, but on the inside he’s suddenly a little less happy about being awake. Tomorrow is the third anniversary of the founding of the Winchester House For Wayward Angels, which means a party and extra people and _mingling._ God, the mingling.

“You don’t seem very excited,” Theliel muses. “Is it because you’ll be expected to interact with more than a dozen people at a time?”

Dean laughs, nodding. “You know me. I hate trying to make small talk.” 

“I understand that,” Theliel says. She hums a few bars of a Beatles song and walks away, gracefully twirling along with the notes. Dean watches her go with a fond look on his face before turning and shuffling in the other direction, making a beeline for the kitchen and coffee. 

Sam is at the table, deep in conversation with an angel named Cabriel, staring intently as Cabriel explains something unexplainable. Dean rolls his eyes when he hears the words “string theory,” heading directly for the pot of coffee that’s still warm enough for consumption. 

“Morning, Sammy,” Dean yawns, rummaging through the cupboards in search of a clean mug. With nearly a hundred residents, clean dishes that are actual useful are rare, except on Sundays, which are cleaning days. And since it’s currently Saturday, Dean has to settle for a wine glass.

“Why are you up so early?” Sam asks by way of greeting.

Dean taps a fingernail on the side of his wine glass of coffee, leaning against the counter and watching Cabriel puzzle over the newspaper. “I don’t actually know.”

“Well, you look hell,” Sam says tonelessly. Dean almost spits out his coffee in indignation, glaring at his brother over the brim of his wine glass. “Kidding. Although you probably know what looking like hell is like, don’t you?”

“Shut up, Sam,” Dean groans. “Your humor isn’t funny.”

Sam looks affronted. “The angels laugh,” he says childishly.

“The angels don’t actually know what funny is,” Dean teases, ignoring the look of confusion he gets from Cabriel. “They laugh at almost anything.”

“Shut up,” Sam grumbles, stealing Cabriel’s newspaper. Cabriel doesn’t protest, simply allowing Sam to slide the paper across the table and fold it, searching for the crossword. “Hand me a pen.”

Dean tosses his brother a pen and leaves him to his crossword, carrying the wine glass carefully so as to not spill it on their clean carpets. He blinks blearily at the wall murals in the various hallways—new artwork is common, seeing as most of the angels are artistic in at least one way. There’s one in the Art Hallway that he’s never seen before, and he stops to inspect it. This one must have sprung up sometime in the night, because it certainly wasn’t there yesterday. The formerly blank expanse of white wall is now covered in thick gold brushstrokes, punctuated by thinner yellow ones, swirling and twining to create a star that almost appears to be actually shining. Dean reaches a hand up to touch the white center of the star, but stops short. The paint is still wet.

“Do you like it?” a timid voice asks. Dean turns to see who spoke. It’s a short man, staring at Dean with open blue eyes, white apron painted bright yellow and a brush still clutched in one hand. Standing next to him is a tall, willowy girl no more than twenty, equally paint-coated.

“It’s beautiful,” Dean answers earnestly, and the man grins from ear to ear. Dean doesn’t know either of these angels; they must be new. He holds out a hand. “Hi, I’m Dean.”

The woman shakes it. Her grip is strong and firm, completely unlike her thin, fragile frame would suggest. She lets go and tucks a lock of white-blond hair behind an ear, smiling at him softly. “I’m Israfil, but you may call me Ezra if that’s too difficult to pronounce.”

“And I’m Gamiel,” the man says, straightening the crooked green tie that doesn’t match his dark blue shirt at all. “We got here last week. We haven’t had much time to meet anyone new.”

“I run the place,” Dean says self-consciously. He hates explaining his position to the newer angels. They tend to be a little weepy and thankful. He thinks it might be because they’ve been living on the streets for almost three years, not knowing how to assimilate properly into society.

“We know. Castiel told us,” Israfil says around a smile. She laughs, just a little chime of a laugh, and grabs Gamiel by the hand, leading him off down the hall. Dean shakes his head and watches them disappear around a corner, headed in the general direction of the art supply closet. 

He then continues on his way, trying to navigate the labyrinth of hallways and corridors to get the one of the rooms Cas might be teaching in. He prides himself on the ease with which he can typically use the tunnel system, but he almost never heads into the Art Hallways and Music Hallways. He tends to spend more time in the shooting range or the living quarters, teaching confused angels to hunt or playing mother hen. 

Dean glances into every room he passes that has its door open, hoping for a glimpse of his favorite angel. He actually passes the right room, and Cas calls his name to get him to turn around. “Dean! In here!”

Dean grins and tries not to look too embarrassed as he enters the full room. There are four couches, each with two angels on it. Cas is sitting on top of a desk at the front of the room, genuinely happy smile plastered on his handsome face. He waves at Dean. 

“Good morning. Is that a wine glass of coffee?” Cas asks, tilting his head to the side in the way that all the angels seem inclined to do.

“Yeah,” Dean admits, looking sheepishly down at his empty glass. “Um, tomorrow is cleaning day. There weren’t any more mugs. I had to work with what I had.”

Cas graces him with one of his biggest smiles, hopping down from the desk and taking the glass from Dean. “You’re a dork,” he says lovingly.

“You’re a bitch,” Dean mutters.

“Assbutt,” Cas tosses back, and then turns to face his siblings. He pulls on his teacher voice, speaking louder than strictly necessary and gesturing. “This is Dean, which I hope you all know. What you all might not know is that Dean is one of three human beings who have been to hell and lived to tell the tale. Hopefully I can get him to answer a few questions for us.”

“What the hell kind of class you teaching, babe?” Dean asks out of the corner of his mouth.

“Theology,” Cas replies in the same fashion, and then he’s back to teaching. “Tell us what your last memory of hell is, Dean. Please.”

Dean opens and closes his mouth a few times, unsure of what to say. Eventually the truth straps on a parachute and jumps out. “White light. Blinding white light.”

Cas smiles again, but this time it’s a soft one, gentle and sappy and sweet. “Me.”

Dean nearly collapses right then and there. He’d never thought of it that way. “Yeah.”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says briskly, and ushers Dean out the door. He stops to give Dean a quick kiss on the temple and a warm smile and then he’s gone, back to teaching his freaky theology class that makes zero sense, and Dean is left to try and think of what he’s going to do at the Anniversary Party tonight.

XXXXX

The Anniversary Party is everything Dean thought it would be, and more. Some hunters show up, those who had a hand in preventing the world’s end. Garth and Kevin and Charlie are there, standing awkwardly in the corner alternately drinking and gaping at the angels.

The poor angels have no idea what to do. Some of them, the ones that have been at the Winchester House for a long time, laugh and joke and carry on like proper partiers. The newer ones stand along the walls and watch with huge, frightened eyes. The rest just stand about and talk quietly while the band plays classical music. (It’s an angel band. Dean doesn’t think he could get them to play something fun if he tried.)

Crowley is there, having emerged from his room—where he spends most of his time, reading and gossiping with Sam—obviously making fun of the angels behind their backs. He stands next to Sam, who is leaning down to hear, occasionally pointing or laughing. Sam frowns a lot, but sometimes he grins.

Dean and Cas stand together, though not really. Cas is laughing and telling stories with Sarah and Vel, and Dean is locked in his own head, trying to figure out how he’s going to get out of giving a speech. It doesn’t take long to realize that he can’t, so he resigns himself to trying to write a speech.

“Dean, get on the stage,” Cas orders, voice all serious, and Dean can feel cardiac arrest coming on. He’s not ready for this. Cas gives him a little push and then he’s on the stage, staring out at a hundred or so faces of all shapes, sizes, and colors, with nothing to say.

“Um,” he says.

“Hey,” he says.

“Uh,” he says.

He clears his throat and decides to hell with it. “So, three years ago you guys fell out of the sky. Let me tell you, that was one of the worst nights of my life. I nearly died, and a lot of people actually did. But you guys survived, so… kudos.”

This is the literal worst speech that has ever been uttered before an audience. Dean pushes on, trying to ignore the confused and trying-not-to-laugh look on Cas’ face. “I remember, when we first started collecting angels. The first few, I almost killed with my car. Sarah, Vel, Tempast, I’d like to apologize for that.

“But, uh, we’re all here. And I like how it is now. With our hunters out in the field, there’s barely any monster activity. Abaddon is ruling happily in hell and as far as I know, she doesn’t want to kill us, so we don’t have to worry about demons. We have it pretty good.

“I don’t actually know what this speech was supposed to be about. But I’d like to say, um, that I’m glad we have each other. I have Sam and Cas and all of you, even if takes me a month to learn your name. So thanks. For being a family, to all of us. The Winchester House wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you.”

Dean flees the stage as quickly as he can, face beet red and knees shaky. He’s never been good at public speaking. Actually, he’s never been good at speaking, unless very drunk or very angry, neither of which apply. 

“Nice speech,” Crowley taunts when Dean reaches his circle of friends. He chooses to ignore the comment and casually flip Crowley off behind his back so that Sam doesn’t see and disapprove.

“It actually wasn’t as bad as it could have been,” Sam allows, shrugging. 

“It was great,” Cas says with a grin, pulling Dean into his arms and hugging him tight enough to make his back pop. Dean laughs and squirms, making a show of trying to get Cas off. Cas giggles, honestly giggles, and only holds tighter. He whispers in Dean’s ear, “Thank you for all of this.”

“No problem, babe,” Dean murmurs, stopping his struggles and allowing Cas to hold him. “I love you.”

“And I you,” Cas replies, and kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> Short thing that I wrote that tells you what happens after this:
> 
> In the years to come, the Winchester House For Wayward Angels would house a total of four hundred and six angels, all of whom lived in the complex. They shared rooms, with an average of five to a room. The angels lived like one massive colony of hunters, going out on jobs and coming back bloodied and beaten up. They had a medical facility and a library and a lot of other departments, too, all of which were run by angels. Some of them lived in the Winchester House for life, but most moved out and got lives of their own. At most, one hundred and twelve angels lived there at one time.
> 
> Castiel eventually became Castiel Winchester, and the ring on his hand matched the one on Dean’s. Sam was the first to know, but within the entire House knew about them, and were either ecstatic or confused. Together they ran the Winchester House and taught the angels everything they would need to live a full life away from people who wanted to kill them. If they wanted, the angels could also become hunters. The Winchesters would teach them how.
> 
> Crowley also lived at the Winchester House, though no one was sure exactly what he did. Mostly he read, and spent time with Sam, and sometimes he told jokes. If one could get him drunk enough, he would tell fantastic stories, and he occasionally helped out with teaching the fallen angels spells.
> 
> Overall, everyone lived happily ever after. And that’s the end.


End file.
